Uncaged Ready Depths

The imaginary garden feeds on reality’s rules—can’t dos and coffee for breakfast, skyclad dancing in a sweet pea patch and pineapple for lunch, three mind blushing whispers for dinner, nibbles and giggles and thirteen extra kisses for supper (since elevenses were skipped). Snack time is hammers and sugar skulls. Exquisite… but gentle! Living is a fragile thing—it can hurt, break, turn sweetest slumber to death.

While sleeping, a heart grows taller than truth and big eyes bloom into the world.

Out of her wild dream,
purple dust from red poppies
uncaged ready depths…
filling books with opiumed
tales, to be read till the end.

the (not so) wee notes…
Elevenses: if the nerdiness is strong with you, it is probable that (like moi) you learned of the elevenses through The Lord of the Rings. But guess what I found out while questing the Dark Lands of Google? Elevenses is a real thing in many places around the world. It involves foods like tea and biscuits, coffee and crackers… But “during the first decades of the 19th century [in the USA], elevenses consisted of drinking whiskey.” And here I was, thinking only Hobbits had iron hard stomachs.
– I almost titled this poem “Kubla Khan Gone Wicked for Alice” *cough… cough*.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and to Poets United.

by Robert Draves (@draves.robert)

My Sweet Night-Mare

Living is ink and want and him… a stitched story that has never been, a knowing smile that leaves logic and metaphors ashamed of being as unreal as words never felt. We kiss in books, on grass, in libraries, in crafted dreams… full of romances written with sharp teeth and (once upon a lie) sharper truths.

Scribble me
yours, for 13 whiles.
I will be
monster and hero,
for your tale in me.

Living is ink and want and her… She reads me real in her sleep, names me sweet Night-Mare, drinker of reason, all hers, in the wicked pools of our dark.

the wee notes…
– In myth, Mares are terrible creatures, bringers of nightmares that drive dreamers insane with terror. The succubus and incubus (female and male spirits that seduce dreamers) sound a lot like mares, don’t they? In this bit of tanka-prose, I wanted to explore what might happen if a mare and the librarian (obviously) he meant to torment end up finding common ground.
– Written for the Beautiful Freaks Fest 2017, and for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Literary Excursions with Kerry ~ Metafiction.
– If you haven’t entered my stitched poetry giveaway, follow the link to do so… commenting on this poem gives you 1 entry, if you’ve entered the giveaway.